


eat dessert first

by Spikedluv



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Professions, Alternate Universe, Cameo by Jordan Parrish, Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, but no one died, the hale fire happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 04:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: When an art forgery is discovered at the Beacon County Museum, FBI Agent Chris Argent is sent to Beacon Hills to investigate.  Because of his family’s actions Chris just wants to solve the case and leave, but sparks fly when he meets famous art historian turned professor Peter Hale for the first time.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Comments: 27
Kudos: 227
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	eat dessert first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhysiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/gifts).

> This story was written for Rhysiana for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019. She asked for an _FBI White Collar agent Chris and consultant art history professor Peter, based (loosely) on [this Tumblr post](https://brookesbutler.tumblr.com/post/177674539304/warmpockets-warmpockets-im-watching-an-art)_. Sorry it didn’t go to the NC17 place, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! And I promise that you’ll get fic no. 2 . . . eventually. *g*
> 
> Posted: November 9, 2019
> 
> Huge thanks to Isabellerecs for creating this gorgeous cover art!
> 
> [ ](https://imgur.com/eFuoQje)

Chris Argent glanced at the ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills’ sign as he drove the rental SUV past it. He’d never been to Beacon Hills before, but his surname wasn’t unknown there. Some might even say it was ‘infamous’. Chris had separated from his family years ago, but the family name still haunted him.

Chris followed the directions the GPS gave him to the Beacon County Sheriff Department. He angled into a parking spot and took a breath before turning off the engine and getting out of the SUV. He rolled down his shirt cuffs and got out the suit jacket he’d folded across the backseat for the drive. Chris shoved his arms into the sleeves, then took his FBI credentials from where they hung over his belt and slipped them into the inside pocket of the jacket. Fully armored Chris made his way into the station.

Chris smiled and showed his ID and badge to the deputy stationed behind the front desk. “Good morning. FBI Agent Chris Argent. Sheriff Stilinski is expecting me.”

Deputy T. Graeme raised her gaze from Chris’s ID to his face. Through practice and sheer bullheadedness Chris managed to keep his smile from wavering.

“I’ll let the sheriff know you’re here,” Deputy Graeme said as she reached for the handset.

Chris gave the deputy a polite nod and glanced around the bullpen. Most of the deputies who’d looked up with interest when Chris entered the station had returned to work. Except for one. She had dark hair pulled up into a complicated twist on the back of her head and she stood with her hands braced on the heavy belt at her waist.

The deputy wasn’t standing close enough to have heard his name when Chris introduced himself to Deputy Graeme, but it was clear from the scowl she was directing Chris’s way that she had somehow sussed out his identity. Before the deputy could say anything – and he had few doubts that things were headed in that direction – Sheriff Stilinski stepped out of his office and introduced himself.

“Agent Argent. Sheriff Stilinski, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Stilinski gestured for Chris to precede him into the office and paused only long enough to say, “Laura, take your break. Why don’t you call Peter and let him know that Agent Argent is here and will probably want to speak with him.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“Have a seat,” Stilinski said when he closed the door and crossed the room to his desk.

Chris agreeably sank into one of the two chairs that stood in front of the desk because it tended to put others at ease. “Is there a problem?”

Stilinski raised an eyebrow. “You mean other than the FBI sending an Argent to Beacon Hills?”

“I haven’t had anything to do with my family in years,” Chris said. Over twenty. Chris had gotten away the moment he’d turned eighteen and graduated high school, but he didn’t plan on sharing that with a man he’d only just met.

“That might not earn you much slack here,” Stilinski said. “The Hales are an important and respected family in Beacon Hills, and people here have a long memory.”

““I’m just here to do a job,” Chris said. “I don’t expect to make any friends.”

“Well,” Stilinski said with a hint of amusement, “as long as you keep your expectations low.”

Chris didn’t react. “Can you tell me what you know?”

“Sure. Professor Hale took his Art History 101 class to the Beacon County Museum and while they were there he discovered a forgery.”

Chris couldn’t help the skeptical eyebrow quirk. “Just like that?”

“Peter Hale is a big name in the art world,” Stilinski said without getting defensive.

“Why is it that Mr. Hale just happened to notice the forgery now?”

Stilinski raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to blame Peter Hale for this somehow?” Stilinski laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You haven’t even been in town for an hour and you’re already going after the Hales. Maybe you’re not so far removed from your family as you think.”

Chris sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t an accusation, merely a question.”

“The museum has their own authentication procedure and they acquired the painting before Peter returned to Beacon Hills. My understanding is that this was the first time Peter saw the painting.”

“So he was able to tell just with one look when no one else caught it?”

“Either he should’ve noticed sooner or he noticed too soon. Make up your mind, Agent.”

Chris ignored the comment and the irritated tone. “Where’s the painting now?”

“In the vault at the museum. We don’t have the facilities here to store something like that. There’s a deputy on guard at all times.”

“Anything else I should know?” Chris said, wanting to cut this interview short.

“This isn’t Los Angeles,” Stilinski said.

Chris gave a curt nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He stood. “I’ll just show myself out.”

Chris didn’t know why he’d taken that interview so personally, or why he’d baited the sheriff, which hadn’t been a smart move. He’d stopped by the BCSD to build a bridge and may have ended up burning it, instead.

Chris slid behind the wheel and punched the address of the museum into the GPS. His original plan had been to drive through town to get a feel for the place, eventually making his way to the museum, but now he wanted to go directly there and get this over with.

~*~

The curator, Milton Joyce, met with Chris immediately. The immaculately pressed suit couldn’t hide the pallor of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Chris wondered if the man had gotten any sleep since the forgery had been discovered.

“I verified the authenticity of this Van der Meer myself,” Joyce said.

“Are you disputing the forgery?” Chris said.

“No, the painting we’d been showing was definitely a forgery.”

“How would you explain that?”

Joyce looked pained. “Someone must have switched the original painting with the forgery after I authenticated it.”

“Who do you think did that?”

“I would’ve said no one . . . no one who worked here could even imagine doing something like that. But that was before . . .”

“Before what?” Chris prompted.

“After the . . . discovery,” Joyce said, as if the word tasted bad on his tongue, “one of our employees didn’t show up for work.”

Chris took down the pertinent information on the employee – Clayton Davis, a part-time docent – then asked to see the painting. Joyce showed Chris to the vault where Deputy J. Parrish stood guard and handed Chris a pair of cotton gloves.

“I’ve never heard of Van der Meer,” Chris said as he examined the painting.

“He’s a lesser-known artist,” Joyce said, “but he’s important to the area. The Van der Meer family, along with the Hales and the Martins, were among the first to settle in what is now Beacon County.”

“Why would someone go to the effort of creating a forgery to steal the work of a lesser-known artist?” Chris wondered aloud. “Was there a bidding war for it?”

“No,” Joyce said.

Chris straightened and looked at Joyce. “Is that odd?”

“Yes and no. At the time I didn’t want to question my luck and jinx the purchase. The only other museum that showed an interest was the Portland Art Museum. That area also lays a claim to the Van der Meer family. But they backed out early on in the proceedings.” 

Joyce hesitated. “The truth is, the local Van der Meer family made it clear that they didn’t want the painting in the museum – old family history – but I was surprised that the branch of the family that moved to Portland after, well, after, didn’t raise a fuss about its return. Their ancestors didn’t take it kindly when their relations sold off the paintings Jacob Van der Meer left behind when he, uh, moved to Portland.”

Chris made a note to check into the Van der Meer family. “What about the rest of the paintings in your collection?”

“What about them?”

“Have you verified that none of them have been replaced?”

“As much as it pains me to have to do so, I’m in the process of doing that now,” Joyce said. “The board wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Joyce’s smile was thin and weak. “And so far we’re in the clear.”

Chris nodded. “Have you heard anything from the Van der Meer family regarding the painting since it was stolen?”

“No.”

“Alright,” Chris said. “I’d like to walk around the museum to get a sense of the layout and speak to your head of security.”

“Of course,” Joyce said. “I’ll get her for you.”

~*~

Chris sat in the visitor parking lot of the California State University at Beacon. He’d called ahead to get Peter Hale’s class schedule. There was a half hour before his current class (308 Contemporary Art: 1965 to the Present) let out, so Chris took the time to make some notes.

Chris wrote his notes on index cards, one note for each card. He’d found that being able to shuffle the cards and look at the information in different order helped him to see connections he might otherwise have missed.

When Chris had written down everything he’d learned in his meetings with Sheriff Stilinski, Milton Joyce and Sandy Cole, the head of security for the Beacon County Museum, he went through them. Chris added information he’d learned about Peter Hale from the University’s faculty page, as well as from Hale’s professional website and Wikipedia (with a notation where the information came from).

Hale was just as renowned as Stilinski had claimed. He’d worked in New York City, Paris and Berlin, to name just a few places. Hale had made a name for himself when he’d discovered a ‘lost’ Koplowitz (where ‘lost’ meant ‘stolen by Nazis during WWII’) in a bunch of paintings donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art when he was still in grad school.

Chris checked his watch and reluctantly locked the index cards inside his briefcase. He waited until he heard the beep indicating the SUV had locked before heading up the sidewalk to Van der Meer Hall, where the art and art history classes were held and where the professors who taught those classes had offices.

Chris found the correct lecture room and waited in the hallway outside. Through the closed door he could hear the muffled sounds of people talking, but he couldn’t make out the words. A few minutes later the doors opened and students pushed out into the hallway en mass. After the initial outpouring of students they trickled out in ones and twos.

When the flow slowed Chris stepped into the room and got his first look at Peter Hale in person. The photo on the faculty website did not do him justice, was Chris’s first (and totally inappropriate) thought. There were two students hanging around the lectern as Hale packed up his lecture notes. Given the way the girl angled herself and the pink tips of the boy’s ears, Chris wasn’t the only one in the room who found the professor attractive.

Chris waited until Hale dismissed the students before stepping forward. Hale didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Agent Argent, I presume.”

After his conversation with Stilinski, Chris wasn’t surprised that he’d called to warn Hale. “The sheriff called you.”

Hale raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it was John?”

Chris felt an unreasonable twinge of jealousy at Hale’s use of Stilinski’s first name. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t Joyce. He resents you for noticing the forgery and making him look bad.”

Hale huffed. “Is that what he said?”

“He didn’t need to.”

Hale didn’t seem impressed. “Milton Joyce didn’t need my help to look bad. Can we do this in my office?”

Chris followed Hale out of the lecture room and up two flights of stairs to a small office with only one window that looked out over the roof. The wall space, what little there was, was covered with bookcases, the shelves filled with books about art.

“What?” Hale said when he noticed Chris’s study of the room.

“I thought you’d have a large corner office given your reputation.”

“I could have had,” Hale said without a hint of arrogance that Chris could discern. “I declined. Not alienating my colleagues before even meeting them was more important than an office with a view.”

Hale offered Chris a seat and something to drink. “It’s a Keurig,” Hale said. “One cup at a time keeps me from drinking an entire pot. With the bonus of different flavors as the mood strikes.”

“Tell me you’re not one of those pumpkin spice people,” Chris said.

“Now why would I do that?” Hale shot Chris a smile over his shoulder as he set up the machine.

Chris let his gaze wander down Hale’s back. He wore a pair of jeans and loafers. The only concession to being a professor was the emerald green button-down tucked into the waistband of the jeans. The rolled-up cuffs that revealed strong forearms were more distracting even than the two top buttons that were undone.

After they both had mugs of coffee in their hands – Chris’s nearly black while Hale used enough half and half to make the coffee look white – Chris started asking questions.

“You’re an art historian, why was that your first visit to the Beacon County Museum?”

“Because I was a last minute hire,” Hale said calmly. “I barely had time to unload the boxes from my car before classes started. What free time I did have was spent reacclimating myself with the campus and going over the syllabus and lesson plans that the previous professor left behind.”

“How did you end up with the position?”

“Talia called me about the opening and I called the Dean. I’d been thinking about coming home and this seemed like the universe telling me it was time.”

Chris changed the subject. “Why doesn’t Milton Joyce like you?”

“You mean besides the metaphorical black eye I just gave him?”

Chris couldn’t help smiling at Hale’s comment. “Yeah, besides that.”

“Milton and I went to high school together. He had delusions of being a famous artist. I set him straight about the inadvisability of that as a career path.”

“Gently and with tact?”

Hale grinned. “I was the star of the basketball team with a chip on my shoulder because my older sister had been a straight-A student while being active in sports and on half a dozen committees, so no. I had something to prove back then.”

“But not now?”

“I was as gentle and as tactful as I could be this time, without allowing Milton to sweep it under the rug.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Was that a real possibility?”

“Probably not a _real_ one, but I saw the thought cross his mind.”

“How were you able to detect the forgery at a glance?”

Hale laughed. “It wasn’t quite as simple as that. I studied the painting quite thoroughly, kept going back to it between checking on my students.”

“Still,” Chris said. “You determined the forgery with only a visual inspection, no other tests.”

“I thought you would have done your homework, Agent. I did my dissertation on several of the lesser-known artists, including Van der Meer. I could’ve picked out that forgery in my sleep.”

“You should update your Wikipedia page, then.”

A knock sounded on the door before Hale could respond to that. “Ah, Jillian. Please come in.” Hale gestured to the young woman and turned back to Chris. “If you don’t have any more questions, I have a meeting with my TA.”

“I don’t,” Chris said. “For now.” He rose and set the coffee mug on the corner of the desk. Chris extended his hand and Hale took it. Chris pretended he didn’t feel a slight tingle when their hands met. “Thank you for your time, Professor Hale.”

Chris withdrew a card from his ID wallet and offered it to Hale. “My number. In case you think of anything else.”

Hale looked at the card for a long moment before plucking it out of Chris’s hand with two fingers. He glanced at Chris’s name and cell phone number printed on the front before tucking it into the front pocket of his shirt. “Good luck with your investigation, Agent.”

“Thank you. Ma’am.” Chris took his leave, but he didn’t move fast enough to miss hearing young Jillian’s, “Wow, prof, he was _hot_,” before the office door closed completely.

~*~

Chris sat in his SUV and wrote up more notes onto index cards. When he’d finished documenting his interview with Peter Hale, Chris started the engine and headed back to the BCSD where he hoped to borrow a desk. Presuming Stilinski wasn’t holding a grudge from their earlier meeting.

The sheriff was talking to one of his deputies – the dark-haired woman who’d taken an instant dislike to Chris on his previous visit – when Chris entered the station. Stilinski broke off the conversation when he noticed everyone else’s attention being directed to the front. Stilinski said something to the deputy, who gave Chris a death glare, and approached.

“How’d your interviews go?”

“Well,” Chris said. “I was hoping to borrow a desk . . .”

Stilinski waved Chris towards his office and preceded him into the space. “You probably need some privacy.” He cleared some files off a small table. “Unless you need the computer.”

Chris patted the bag he carried over his shoulder. “I’ve got my laptop. I’ll be good at the table as long as there’s an outlet to recharge the battery.”

Stilinski pointed out the outlet and Chris set his bag on the table. “Thank you.”

“We’re both on the same side, right? Truth, justice . . .”

“Right.”

Stilinski set the files on his desk and left the office. He returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. He placed one on the table a distance away from the laptop Chris was signing into, along with a few sugar packets and creamers.

“I didn’t know how you liked it.”

“Thanks.” Chris hesitated as he recalled the cup he’d just had.

“It’s not poisoned,” Stilinski said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Chris gave Stilinski a look that he didn’t see because he’d turned to his own desk. “I’m supposed to cut down on caffeine,” Chris admitted even as he pulled the mug closer and added one creamer.

“In this job?” Stilinski shuddered. “My kid’s already replaced burgers and bacon with turkey and veggie varieties. I’d stage a rebellion if he wanted to take away my caffeine, too.”

“Amen,” Chris said with feeling. He closed his eyes at the first sip. “For station coffee this is pretty good.”

“There’s a coffee shop in town that blends their own beans. We take turns splurging on a bag for the station. It’s worth it, especially when you’ve been on duty for 48 hours and counting.”

Chris hummed in agreement. He’d been there, forced to drink sludge just to stay awake. Stilinski opened a folder and Chris returned to the computer. He searched for Clayton Davis using the social security number and home address Milton Joyce had given him.

Davis had a local checking account and a credit card from the same bank. He’d leased a car and had only started paying taxes into the government when he began working at the museum. Either that was his first job or there was something fishy about Clayton Davis.

Chris called the museum and asked to speak to Milton Joyce. He asked for a copy of any job application Davis had filled out, or resume he’d provided, when applying for the job. Chris got the number from Stilinski and had Joyce fax the documents over.

“Did you ever meet Clayton Davis?” Chris asked after ending the call.

“Guy from the museum? No.” Stilinski shook his head. “I haven’t been to the museum in years, since my first grown up date with Claudia after I spent the summer mowing lawns and cleaning cars so I could earn enough to pay the entrance fee and for a nice meal after.”

The sheriff looked lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself. “And I haven’t had to arrest him. These days I’m too busy to meet anyone outside of work, the grocery store and the gas station.”

“What about Milton Joyce?”

Stilinski laughed. “Oh god. He hated us in high school. Well, he hated Peter, and the rest of us by association.”

“Peter Hale mentioned that he’d disabused Joyce of the notion that he’d ever be a famous artist.”

“Peter told you that? Hmm. Yeah, Peter was . . . blunt.”

“Isn’t it odd for someone who aspired to being an artist himself to become a museum director?”

“Same line of work?”

“Yeah, but one is doing, the other is being constantly surrounded by the result of other people doing and the knowledge that you didn’t measure up.”

“Wow,” Stilinski said. “When you put it like that it sounds a lot like self-flagellation.”

“Yeah.”

Deputy Graeme knocked on the door and appeared with the fax for Chris. He got back to work. It didn’t take long to confirm his belief that Clayton Davis was an alias. The university where Davis claimed to have received a Masters in Art History had no record of him and the phone numbers to the three references he’d provided had been disconnected.

Chris called Joyce again and told him to place the original documents in a folder and to not touch them any more than necessary. Chris would stop by tomorrow and try to get prints off of them. It was a long shot, but it was all Chris had right now.

Chris ran the other two big names in the case – Martin Joyce and Peter Hale. He had a list of museum employees that he’d run tomorrow just to be thorough since the evidence was mounting that Davis, or whatever his real name was, had something to do with the forgery. There was nothing saying he didn’t have some additional inside help.

“Has anyone checked Davis’s apartment?” Chris said.

Stilinski raised his head from a file that had caused a frown to crease his face. “No. If you’re going you could probably use local back up. Just in case.”

Stilinski closed the folder with more force than necessary and stood. He grabbed his jacket off the hook by the door. “We’ll take my car.”

~*~

Chris stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the empty lot that was at the address Davis had given for his apartment. Stilinski leaned against the cruiser and stared at the same empty lot. Chris turned when Stilinski spoke.

“Clayton Davis was a fake identity, and the address he gave was fake, so that tells you one thing.”

“What’s that?” Chris said as he headed back to the passenger seat.

“Whoever Davis really is, he had to be staying in Beacon Hills since he had a job here.”

“Maybe under his real name,” Chris finished.

Back at the station Chris made more notes and went through his index cards looking for any connection he could make this early in the case. He set the cards aside and wrote up reports on his interviews and the searches he’d run.

When those reports had been added to the file Chris leaned back in his chair and tapped the corner of one index card against the table. He glanced at the card and stared back into space. Milton Joyce had said he was in the process of confirming that the Van der Meer had been the only forgery, but having an idea of whether there were other forgeries sooner rather than later would help with the direction of the investigation.

Decided, Chris double-checked Peter Hale’s class schedule before packing up. He thanked Stilinski for the use of his office, then headed back to the CSU Beacon campus.

~*~

Hale was standing on the front steps of Van der Meer Hall speaking to another professor when Chris headed up the sidewalk. Hale sensed Chris’s approach and glanced over his shoulder. He ended the conversation with the woman who gave Chris a long look before taking her leave.

Chris nearly faltered when Hale turned the full force of his gaze onto him. “Nice jacket,” he said to hide his being off-balance.

Peter glanced down at the jacket in question as if he didn’t recall what he was wearing.

“I didn’t figure you for elbow patches.”

“It was a gift from Talia. A gag gift. I wore it the first day as a joke, but the thing is so darned comfortable.”

“Then I guess the joke was on her.”

“Indeed.” Peter shifted so he faced Chris head-on. “Do you have more questions, Agent?”

“Actually,” Chris said when he reached Hale, who’d remained stubbornly in place, “I have a proposition for you.”

Hale raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Heat suffused Chris’s cheeks, but he pretended it hadn’t. “Regarding the case.”

“Sounds intriguing. I’m just headed out to grab something to eat; you’re welcome to join me.”

Chris hesitated.

Hale’s expression closed up. “Unless you’re worried about your reputation.”

“I was more worried about yours.”

Hale looked amused now. “I’m sure my reputation can take the hit.”

Chris clapped a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”

Hale gave a slight incline of his head. “Or you can make an appointment to see me tomorrow during office hours. I have a seminar tonight and I’m not skipping supper. The diner has a chicken and biscuit special tonight.”

“Well,” Chris said, “who could turn down chicken and biscuits?”

“Great,” Hale said. “I’ll drive.”

Chris glanced at his rental, but followed Hale to his car. He stopped when they reached the Jaguar convertible that sat with the top down. “Mid-life crisis?”

Hale laughed. He dropped his bag into the tiny backseat and slid behind the wheel. Chris slipped into the passenger seat and his belly fluttered at the roar of the engine when Hale pressed the start button. Chris quickly fastened the seat belt when Hale backed out of the parking spot and sped towards the exit.

“You’re doing well over the 10mph speed limit,” Chris said.

Hale spared Chris a glance before pulling out onto the street and gunning the engine. “Are you going to arrest me, Agent?”

“I left my cuffs in my other pants,” Chris said, which earned him another smile.

Chris let a few moments pass before speaking again. “Isn’t this car impractical for the area?”

“We don’t get much snow,” Hale said, “and when it get’s colder I’ll put the top up. Are you cold?”

“Depends. How long is this drive gonna be?”

“Just a few minutes. I can put the top up. We tend to run hot; I forget that you humans are so fragile.”

The sun was still shining, thankfully, so it wasn’t as cold as it could’ve been. “Maybe for the ride back,” Chris said.

Chris felt like he was in a television show when a spot opened up right in front of the Main St. Diner as Hale approached. Another car looked like it might be considering the spot, but took one look at the Jag bearing down on it and moved off to look for a safer spot. Hale parked and got out, leaving the top down and his bag in the backseat.

“Aren’t you afraid someone might try to steal it?”

Hale’s smile was dangerous. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Chris got the sense that Hale hoped someone would try.

Hale was greeted warmly when he entered the diner. He headed for a booth by the window that afforded him a view of the Jag. Chris hid his smirk.

The waitress came over with a pot of coffee and a genuine smile that didn’t hide the pain in her eyes. She was probably about their age, but the only tells were the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the smattering of grey in her blonde hair.

Barb, according to her name tag, poured a cup of coffee for Hale, then turned to Chris. He thought of his stomach and regretfully declined, ordering an ice water with lemon instead. Barb asked if they were ready to order and Chris nodded. He hadn’t been joking about not being able to resist the chicken and biscuits. If Chris hadn’t already determined that Hale was a regular here, he would’ve known when Barb asked if he wanted the ‘usual’.

Chris waited until Barb had returned with his water and left them alone again to broach his idea to Hale. Chris didn’t know Milton Joyce well enough to know whether he was trustworthy, but two things concerned him – Hale’s comment that Joyce had momentarily considered not alerting the authorities to the forgery, and the fact that Joyce had every reason to lie if he found more forgeries to save his own reputation and that of the Beacon County Museum. If he was even actually reviewing the other paintings in the museum’s inventory. What Chris needed was an impartial investigator.

“You want me to examine the paintings,” Hale said.

“Informally.”

Hale raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak other than to thank Barb when she delivered their meals. They dug into the food – Chris had gotten his without mashed potatoes and with extra cranberry sauce – and silence reigned for a few minutes until they’d slaked their appetite. Chris hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until he took the first bite.

When they slowed down, Hale said, “How exactly do you see this working?”

“I thought you could take your class back and take a look at some of the other paintings while you’re there.”

“My being able to spot the forged Van der Meer was due to special circumstances.”

“You’re a world-renowned art historian,” Chris said. “Surely you could tell if something was off with just a visual inspection.”

Hale raised an eyebrow while he finished chewing. “First you think I’m a fraud because I can spot a _very specific_ forgery by sight, and now you think I’m good enough to spot any forgery by sight alone.”

Chris winced. “You’ve spoken to Sheriff Stilinski. I was not trying to malign your character or reputation when I was speaking to the sheriff; I was merely trying to clarify things.”

“Mmm hmm,” Hale said, and continued eating.

Hale paid the bill and left a hefty tip (“Her back is bothering her again; she needs new shoes.”) and left Chris in the CSU Beacon parking lot with an, “I’ll think about it.”

~*~

Chris got a room at the Best Western near the university campus. He showered before sending an e-mail to his boss, then went through his notes again. His body clock got him up at five am. Chris went for a run and took another shower.

Even then it was too early to check out the so-called ‘complimentary breakfast’ so Chris made coffee in the small maker provided in the room and used a hot spot device to connect to the FBI’s private web server. He started a search on the museum employees, beginning with the head of security. Three searches later Chris was tired of staring at the screen and his stomach was rumbling.

Chris packed up his bag and stopped by the breakfast area on the way to his rental. Very little looked appealing, but he made another cup of coffee (after looking over the meager juice offerings) and snagged an apple. He’d stop someplace on the way to the station to get a breakfast sandwich or something else quick and easy.

Stilinski wasn’t in yet when Chris arrived at the station. According to Parrish (who unlocked the sheriff’s office when he saw Chris carrying the two boxes of donuts he’d picked up when he got his sandwich at the café slash bakery), Stilinski had taken a call before he’d even reached the station that morning. The table was still clear so Chris set up there again. He ate his sandwich and the donut he’d saved for himself while he ran searches on the remaining museum employees

By the time Stilinski arrived Chris had finished his third coffee and moved on to bottled water from the vending machine in the break room. He was ready to pull his hair out because none of the other employees showed a sudden influx of cash or a change in their spending habits, and Clayton Davis, or whoever he was, was still in the wind.

“Morning,” Chris said a little gruffly.

Stilinski gave Chris a look as he hung up his jacket. “Rough morning?”

Chris rubbed a hand over his head. “Yeah. Sorry. Just . . . no leads. What about you?”

“Fender bender. A new mother got distracted by her crying baby. Shaken up, but no injuries.”

“That’s good,” Chris said inanely.

“What’s this?” Stilinski picked up the bag Chris had left on his desk. “A bribe?”

“I prefer to think of it as a thank you.”

Stilinski glanced at the closed door before sitting behind the desk. “Anybody see you bring this bag in here?”

“Everyone who was here at the time saw me bring it in, but I doubt they knew it was for you. Besides, I think I successfully distracted them with the two dozen I brought in for the break room. What’s the deal?”

“If anyone knows I’m eating a . . . donut,” Stilinski whispered the word, “my son’ll know five seconds later.” At Chris’s look, Stilinski said, “He wants me to eat healthy.” He paused before adding. “He’s been a worrier since his mom died and I try to humor him.” Stilinski glanced at the bag. “Mostly.”

Stilinski hid the bag in the bottom drawer of his desk (and locked it) before heading to the break room for a cup of coffee. Chris flipped through the updated index cards while Stilinski was gone. When inspiration didn’t strike Chris decided to take a different tack.

This case was about a missing Van der Meer, so what did Chris know about the painting? Van der Meer was a lesser-known artist, but the cost of the painting would still be out of Chris’s price range. The Van der Meer family had been local to Beacon County at the time the painting was produced, and a branch of the family had later moved to Portland. There hadn’t been a bidding war over the painting and, according to Joyce, when he’d contacted the family regarding the unveiling they hadn’t seemed overly pleased that it had been returned to Beacon County. 

If someone was looking for a large payday they’d have chosen a more well-known painting. So if the forgery hadn’t been about money, then it had been about something else. Maybe it had been personal.

When Stilinski returned Chris was diving into the local history of the Van der Meer family. Chris came up for air just as Stilinski was finishing up the accident report.

“What do you know about the Van der Meer’s that still reside in Beacon County?”

“I know that they’re old money, but the money’s running out. They’ve had to sell off a lot of land over the years. They’ve never been a family to live off of the family fortune so they’ve always worked. The family currently living in the old family estate includes a teacher and a fire fighter. I’ve caught one of the kids up on Beacon Point and another smoking pot in the park.”

“No one eccentric enough to want to steal back a painting?”

“Is that your theory?”

Chris shrugged. “Strange painting to choose if the objective was money.”

“So it’s personal.” Stilinski considered it. “They’d also need to know someone who could reproduce the painting. And could be trusted to keep their mouth shut.”

“Fair point.” Chris returned to his research and Stilinski left the office to do whatever it was that county sheriff’s did.

Chris rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. He reached for the water bottle and realized it was empty. There was another empty, so someone must’ve resupplied him without his realizing. Chris checked his watch. It was just after one pm, which explained why his stomach was demanding food.

Stilinski wasn’t at his desk so Chris printed off the home and work place addresses of the Van der Meers still living in Beacon Hills. He’d get something to eat, then start with Elizabeth Cummings at the Beacon County Fire Department.

~*~

Chris returned to the Best Western by five pm after stopping by the museum to pick up the originals of Clayton Davis’s application and resume. It was early, but after interviewing Elizabeth and her husband Thomas, an English teacher at Beacon Hills High School, as well as a couple cousins, Chris was mentally spent. Elizabeth had made it clear that the family wanted nothing to do with the painting or _any_ reminder of Jacob Van der Meer.

Upon further questioning Elizabeth had related to Chris the tawdry story of domestic abuse, which would’ve been overlooked if Jacob hadn’t also gotten a local girl with child. Both the girl and the child died under mysterious circumstances. That was when the family split – those who believed and defended Jacob followed him to Portland when he was run out of town.

Several of Van der Meer’s paintings had been left behind when Jacob fled town. The family sold them off for a pittance in order to get rid of them. The forged painting was one of them.

“We never wanted to see that painting again,” Elizabeth said. “But you should talk to the Van der Meer’s in Portland.” She made it sound as if they had no family connection. “They never forgave us for getting rid of the paintings.”

Chris showered and washed away the stress of the day and a headache that was in part because he’d cut back on caffeine and in part because he’d spent so much time staring at the computer screen earlier and was in denial about needing a pair of reading glasses.

He checked the directory provided by the hotel and walked to the Beacon Bar & Grill for a steak. Chris felt eyes staring into his back as he was led to a table. He glanced over to see both Peter Hale and the deputy from the station sitting at the bar. Chris recalled now that Stilinski had called her Laura. Along with her presence here with Peter, Chris deduced that she must be Laura Hale.

Chris had read the newspaper articles; Laura and her brother Derek had discovered the fire before anyone had gotten hurt. Which explained the glares he’d been getting from her. Chris ordered an ice water with lemon and wondered if there was any way for him to leave without it being obvious. Before he could think on it too hard, Peter Hale slid into the seat opposite him. He wore an amused smile.

“Did you want a menu, Uncle Peter?” the waitress said when she dropped off Chris’s water.

“No, thank you, Cora dear.” 

Chris waited until the waitress – Hale’s niece Cora, apparently – had walked away before speaking. Not that it made any difference probably. “Please don’t tell me that your family owns this restaurant.”

Hale smirked. “I wish I could.”

“Liar.” Chris took a sip of water to have something to do with his hands. Hale laughed. The sound of it hit Chris right in the gut.

Cora returned, looking at Hale oddly, to take Chris’s order. He flipped to the steak entrees and ordered. Cora gave Hale a raised eyebrow.

“The usual,” Hale said.

Chris watched Cora walk away. “They’re not going to poison me, are they?”

“Not to death, probably. Maybe just a little stomach distress.”

Chris gave Hale a look that earned him a grin.

“Want me to be your taster?”

“Like it would even bother you,” Chris said. “Besides, how do I know they care whether they poison you, too?”

“I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Chris hummed and took another sip of water. He carefully set it down at the top edge of the rolled cloth napkin. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

Cora dropped a tray of full glasses, a bottle somewhere hit the floor with a sound that meant smashed glass, and there was a crash from the kitchen. Hale looked like he was biting back a laugh.

“Is your entire family listening to our conversation?”

“Probably. And yes, I’ve given your proposition some thought.” Chris gave Hale a look. “I’ll do it.”

Another crash came from the kitchen. Hale gave Chris a gleeful grin.

“You’re a menace.” Chris got the feeling that Hale took that as a compliment.

Hale was regaling Chris about Paris at Chris’s request when Cora appeared with a tray of food. She set the plates in front of them, then placed a small shaker jar next to Chris’s plate.

“Extra wolfsbane,” Cora said with a straight face. “In case you need it.”

“*Extra* wolfsbane?” Chris said.

The smile Cora flashed before she flounced away reminded Chris a lot of Peter Hale’s.

Peter was smiling as he cut into his rare steak. He placed the bite in his mouth and moaned as he chewed the morsel. Chris concentrated on cutting up his own steak to take his mind off the reaction his body was having to the sound.

The meal was surprisingly pleasant despite the fact that Chris was surrounded by Hales. The conversation was cordial – they traded art stories and agreed that New Orleans was one of the best places to visit in the US. Peter ordered Sambuca for the two of them – it was served with three coffee beans inside the glass, representing health, happiness and prosperity according to Peter – and they continued to chat.

At one point Chris asked Peter why he’d left Beacon Hills.

“Because it was cloying,” Peter said.

Chris felt a sense of camaraderie at the sentiment. “You returned.”

“I’m not eighteen anymore.”

“No,” Chris said. He’d been trying to quell his body’s response to Peter for most of the meal and after dinner drinks, but he could no longer hide the fact that he’d definitely noticed Peter’s . . . everything.

Peter’s dark gaze raked over Chris knowingly. “Well,” he drawled. “It’s probably time to call it a night.”

Chris felt like he was being strangled, but he managed to agree.

Peter insisted on paying since he’d ‘foisted’ his company on Chris, then followed Chris out to the parking lot.

“Did you drive?”

“I walked,” Chris said.

“Then I’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.”

Chris followed Peter to the Jag, arguing with himself the whole way because this was a bad idea on so many levels.

~*~

Chris woke up alone, Peter’s scent still heavy on the pillow. He checked the clock beside the bed; he’d slept later than he’d intended to. Chris couldn’t stop the satisfied smile when he shifted in the bed and was reminded of the reason why.

On the way to the bathroom Chris glanced at the bedside table and the pad with the hotel name printed across the top where Peter had scribbled his number before he’d left last night. (“In case you need to get a hold of me for the case.”) Chris showered and skipped his run in favor of stopping at the diner for breakfast.

At the station Chris got a decaf raspberry tea out of the vending machine before setting up in the sheriff’s office again. He spent the morning following up on the Portland branch of the Van der Meer family. Chris’s interest was piqued when he discovered that one of the great-great-grandchildren of Jacob Van der Meer was attending CSU Beacon.

Charlotte Turner was an English major with a minor in art. Chris sat back in the chair and let that information settle.

“What is it?” Stilinski said when he entered the office (accompanied by the scent of fresh coffee that made Chris want to jump him so he could steal it). 

Chris tore his eyes away from the mug. “One of Jacob Van der Meer’s descendent’s is currently attending CSU Beacon.”

Stilinski settled behind the desk. “Not a coincidence?”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Do you really believe in coincidence?”

Stilinski smiled. “No. But I thought you’d want to expound.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “That branch of the family left Beacon Hills due to a pretty serious split within the family. Apparently they never forgave those that remained for getting rid of Jacob Van der Meer’s paintings. It’s interesting that one of them is in Beacon Hills just when the painting goes missing.”

“Or she could just think that the old family feud is bunkum.”

Chris gave Stilinski a look.

Stilinski grinned. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”

“You’re right, though. I’ll just have to find her and ask her.”

Chris sent a photo of Charlotte Turner to his phone and texted it to Peter. _Have you run into Charlotte Turner at CSUB?_

Peter’s answer (a disappointing _no_), came a half-hour later. He must’ve been in the middle of a class when Chris sent the message. In the meantime, Chris had printed off copies of the photo to show around. As he placed them in the file Chris saw the photo of Clayton Davis. He gave it a long look, then set it side-by-side with the photo of Charlotte.

Chris made a sound that drew Stilinski over to the table. He turned the photos so Stilinski could take a look at them.

“What’s this?”

“A break,” Chris said. “On the left, Charlotte Turner. On the right, Clayton Davis.”

“They’re the same person,” Stilinski said. “Which explains where Clayton Davis disappeared to.”

“He stayed in Beacon Hills, right under our noses.” Chris packed up. “I’m headed to the museum to have Milton Joyce look at the photos, then to the university. Speaking of Joyce. I’ve got Clayton Davis’s original application and resume. It might be a long shot, but could you have someone pull prints? If there are still any on the papers we’ll be able to compare them to Charlotte Turner’s prints.”

Stilinski took the envelope. “Sure. Let me know when you’re headed to the university. I’ll send back-up. That’s non-negotiable,” he added when Chris would’ve argued.

Chris nodded. “Thanks.”

~*~

Chris rushed through the front doors of the museum just as Peter stepped out of a side room. Chris’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of Peter. He looked soft in black denim and matching boots topped by a thin grey v-neck sweater. The raised eyebrow and upturn at the corner of his mouth made Chris want to jump him for reasons that had nothing to do with getting a caffeine fix.

“Agent. You said you had something to show me?”

Chris was thankful for the interruption. He tore his gaze away from Peter and turned to face Milton Joyce. “Yes. Can we go to your office?”

“Of course.” Joyce gave Peter a look that Chris couldn’t decipher, but it wasn’t welcoming and friendly, and led the way.

They didn’t need that much privacy for this, but Chris needed to get some distance from Peter. Chris had a horrible feeling that Peter knew exactly what he was doing. Inside the office Chris withdrew a photo of Charlotte Turner from the file. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Joyce took the photo and studied it. He shook his head. “She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. Maybe I saw her in passing here at the museum.” Joyce held the photo out to Chris. “Why, is she a suspect?”

Instead of taking the photo, Chris gave Joyce a photo of Clayton Davis. “What about now?”

Joyce glanced down at the photo of Davis with a frown. His gaze moved between the photos. Chris watched Joyce’s expression go from confusion to understanding. “They’re the same person.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Yes. I wanted another set of eyes on the photo before we picked her up.” Chris took back the photos and slipped them into the folder. “Thank you for your help. We’ll let you know when we’ve made an arrest.”

“Thank you,” Joyce said. “What about the painting?”

“We’ll call you as soon as we find it.” Chris didn’t have any illusions that the painting was still in Beacon Hills. He had a feeling he’d be calling on the Portland office for assistance with its recovery.

Chris pulled out his cell as he hurried to the SUV. He didn’t see Peter on his way out, which he told himself he should count as a bonus.

~*~

Chris stepped out of the Administration building with Charlotte Turner’s class schedule and dorm room address in his hand to find Deputies Hale and Parrish waiting for him on the front steps.

“She’s in class right now,” Chris said without any preamble. He consulted the class schedule. “In the Margaret & James Hale Hall.”

“I know where that is,” Deputy Hale said.

Chris indicated that she should lead the way. He slipped the papers, including the unnecessary campus map, into the file and followed her. Parrish fell in behind Chris. There was only one door to the lecture room so Chris didn’t need to worry about guarding another exit. He opened the door without regard to the lecture being conducted inside and felt all eyes turn to him.

Chris ran his gaze over the twenty students seated in the room, but didn’t see Charlotte Turner among them. Chris showed his badge to the professor and pulled her out of the room.

“What is this about?”

“I’m FBI Agent Chris Argent, Professor Bradley. Deputies Hale and Parrish.” Bradley glanced at the two deputies and returned her gaze to Chris. “We’re looking for Charlotte Turner.”

“Why?”

“She’s not in class today?” Chris made it a question and Bradley grudgingly shook her head no. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Bradley thought about it. “She was in class on Monday, but I didn’t see her on Wednesday.”

Chris noted the information in his notebook, then tucked it back into his pocket. “Please don’t tell your students that we’re looking for Miss Turner. We don’t want anyone to warn her.”

Chris waited until Bradley nodded to walk away. When they stood on the sidewalk in front of the building Parrish spoke.

“You think she’s still here?”

“No,” Chris said biting the word off. “She took off the moment she heard about the forgery being uncovered. Let’s check out her dorm room anyway.”

Darla Hemmingway, Turner’s roommate, was in so Chris didn’t have to use the key he’d been given. Turner’s side of the room had been cleared out and Darla’s belongings had already begun to migrate into the extra space.

“When is the last time you saw Charlotte?” Chris questioned Darla while the two deputies looked through the drawers and the closet.

“Tuesday morning.”

“Did she tell you why she was leaving?”

“Some family emergency?”

“Did she leave anything behind?”

“Just the textbooks.” Darla pointed to the books on the shelf above the desk.

Chris glanced at Parrish, who said, “On it.”

While Parrish dusted the books for prints, Chris continued to question Darla. She gave him the names of some students Charlotte Turner was friends with, her cell phone number, and the make and model of the car she drove. The two deputies carried the bagged books to the cruiser and Chris returned to the admin office to return the key and get the license plate number of Turner’s car from their records.

In the parking lot Chris gave the vehicle information to Deputy Hale and she called in a APB. When Chris got to the station he’d have to call the Oregon State Police because Charlotte Turner was most likely outside of California by now.

While Chris waited for word to come back from the Portland office he pieced together what had happened. The Portland Van der Meer’s, who’d never gotten over the loss of the painting, had heard that it was coming back to Beacon Hills and had set in motion a plan to get it back.

Charlotte Turner had been sent to Beacon Hills to run point because she was an artist. She’d gotten a job at the museum under an assumed name so she could be close to the painting and had enough access to replace the original with the forgery.

Chris wondered how long the forgery would’ve remained on display with no one the wiser if Peter Hale hadn’t returned to Beacon Hills when he did. The only questions remaining were how many of the Van der Meers had been involved and where was the painting now?

~*~

One week later Chris accompanied the painting (ironically called ‘Wolves in the Mist’, which made Chris wonder how much Jacob Van der Meer had known about werewolves) back to Beacon Hills. He watched Milton Joyce fuss over the painting and install it in a spot of honor. That painting, or at least the story surrounding it, was probably going to be responsible for an influx of visitors to the museum.

Chris knew that the smart thing would be to leave Beacon Hills and forget about everything that had happened there. Instead he found himself waiting outside Peter’s office while he met with a student.

At the conclusion of their meeting Peter walked the student to the door. Peter had to have known that Chris was there, but his presence was obviously unexpected. Peter sent the student on his way and leaned against the doorframe. Everything about Peter’s slouch was meant to hide the tension Chris could nevertheless sense.

“You’re back.”

“Case closed,” Chris said. Charlotte Turner would be doing time, and she wasn’t the only one. “Painting returned.”

“So no reason to remain in Beacon Hills, then.”

“I can think of one.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Another proposition?”

“Something like that. I was thinking dinner.”

“How disappointing,” Peter said. “I was thinking something else entirely.”

Chris pretended to check his watch. “Dinner wouldn’t be for a couple of hours.”

“Is that right?” Peter smiled and lost some of the tension. “You know what they say.”

Chris quirked an eyebrow.

“Eat dessert first.”

Chris laughed, his cheeks heating. “Well, if that’s what they say, then we should probably do it.”

“Give me two minutes to cancel my afternoon class.”

“Oh,” Chris said. “We don’t have to . . .” He hadn’t realized what it would mean for Peter to leave with him now.

“The hell we don’t,” Peter said, disappearing into his office.

Chris couldn’t help smiling as Peter made phone calls and taped a note to his office door. Peter gave Chris a look, but that only made the smile widen. He followed Peter to the Jag without a word of protest. The roof was up because there had been rain earlier in the day, but Chris didn’t think he’d have felt the cold even if it hadn’t been.

Peter drove them to his place and Chris found himself looking forward to getting a look at Peter’s home. “It’s temporary,” Peter said as he let them in. “I’m looking for something more permanent, so I haven’t unpacked everything.” Peter smirked. “Bedroom’s fully unpacked, though.”

“At least you’ve got your priorities right.”

Peter stepped closer to Chris. “You have no idea.”

Chris ran his hand down the blue cashmere sweater Peter wore. “I’ve been wanting to put my hands on this sweater since I first saw you standing in the doorway.”

“Just the sweater?”

“No.” Chris slipped his hand beneath the sweater, gratified when Peter sucked in a breath. “Where did you say that bedroom was?”

Chris kissed Peter before he could answer, but they managed to make their way there anyway.

~*~

The only thing that had been unpacked in the kitchen was the coffee maker (a high-end brand that probably cost more than Chris’s weekly paycheck), a couple of mugs, and enough plates, bowls and flatware for the occasional bowl of cereal (Lucky Charms appeared to be Peter’s weakness) and take-out. It was early enough that they decided to go out for supper instead of ordering in. Also, they’d have had to eat standing up or sitting on the floor.

Peter apologized as they walked to the Jag. “I’m used to living out of suitcases, so I don’t really notice how inconvenient it can be.”

Chris tried not to feel too much pleasure at the thought that Peter probably hadn’t taken anyone else back to his place.

Peter took them to a restaurant where his family wouldn’t be spying on them, for which Chris was grateful. They ordered drinks and an appetizer to share. Chris squinted to read the menu in the dim lighting and thought that getting a pair of glasses probably wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Over a plate of fried zucchini Peter said, “I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back to Beacon Hills.”

Chris felt a frisson of guilt because he had considered sending someone else with the painting. “I had unfinished business,” he said, looking at Peter over the rim of his glass.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “If you didn’t, I’d have had to call you.”

“For a booty call?”

Peter gave Chris an amused smile. “About the forgeries. The booty call would’ve been a bonus.”

Chris’s cheeks heated, then he realized what Peter had said. “What forgeries?”

“You asked me to check out the other paintings at the museum,” Peter reminded him.

“I didn’t realize you had.”

“You literally saw me there.”

“I didn’t know you were . . . Wait, you found another forgery?”

“Three,” Peter said. “One I’m certain of, the others need testing to be sure.”

“What . . . ? How could there be so many forgeries at one museum?”

“Definitely an inside job,” Peter said.

Chris gave Peter a questioning look.

“I’ve been wondering about Milton’s reaction to the Van der Meer forgery, his first instinct to cover it up.”

“Because he had something _else_ to cover up.”

Peter grinned. Chris raised his glass of water and Peter clinked the neck of his beer bottle to it.

“It’s funny you mention that because I’d asked the sheriff why someone who’d wanted to be an artist would take a job in an art museum. It just seems like . . . self-punishment.”

“Unless he thinks he’s pulling one over on everyone else.”

“Unless,” Chris said. There had been no red flags when he’d run the search on Milton Joyce, so he was going to have to dig deeper. If he was selling the originals, he’d have to have an account somewhere to hide the proceeds.

Chris had no idea what was going on between him and Peter, but he’d just gotten a little more time to figure it out. And to spend more time with Peter outside of bed – he was an art expert, after all, and Chris was going to need one of those. It would take some time to authenticate every painting at the Beacon County Museum.

“How do you feel about officially becoming an expert consultant for the FBI?”

“Depends,” Peter drawled. “How do you feel about sleeping with your expert consultants?”

It was a done deal, so Chris would have to be honest about it up front when he submitted the paperwork. He had a feeling his superiors would overlook it given Peter Hale’s reputation in the art world. “I’m feeling pretty good about it right now.”

Peter’s smile was both warm and thrilling. He raised his bottle again. “In that case, here’s to a close working relationship with the FBI.”

Chris shivered at the double meaning. Peter’s sharp eyes didn’t miss Chris’s response to his words and his smile went knowing. Chris swallowed hard, a small part of him wondering what the heck he was getting himself into, and he clinked his glass to the bottle.

“To a close working relationship.”

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Eat Dessert First](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811718) by [Covers by Isabelle (isabellerecs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabellerecs/pseuds/Covers%20by%20Isabelle)


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